


A Bit Not Good

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock, Caring Sherlock, Gen, sensory processing disorder, vomitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday present gives Sherlock an opportunity to re-introduce John Watson to Lestrade's nephew, Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Hurry up, John. We have less than thirty five minutes to get to Waterloo Station, and you know what the traffic is like at this time of day."

John glared at his friend. Sherlock was standing in the hallway with a slightly anxious look on his face, but that was no excuse. "Well, next time, don't keep me up all bloody night chasing shadows across the rooftops of London; not if you want me to be bright-eyed the next morning." The pair had spent a fruitless night trying to find a suspect who had vanished only moments before the police arrived at a murder scene. After almost an hour of traipsing across London to visit different tattoo parlours, Sherlock finally found his man- only to see him bolt up the fire escape and then off they went. Unfortunately, the man had given them the slip.

"Slip" was the operative word in another way, too. It was also why John was grumpy this morning. He'd taken too sharp a turn around one blind corner down an alley way and ended up on his rear end, after an unfortunate slip on black ice. After ascertaining that his flatmate was not seriously injured, Sherlock gave him a hand up and with a smirk muttered something about prats taking prat falls. The frustration of losing the suspect kept him quiet in the taxi, a fact that John was thankful for as he was having difficulty sitting on the part of his anatomy that was in pain. Even getting home had not helped much. What little time he'd spent flat on his back in bed was not as restful as he might have expected, simply because every time he moved, his bruises complained.

So, when he woke up this morning after a scant ninety minutes of sleep, it was to find Sherlock standing in the doorway of his room, reminding him that today was the day that he had agreed to meet Sam. John groaned.

"It's his sixteenth birthday, and I want to do something special with him. You said you would come." Sherlock waved three rail tickets at John: "The 9.49 to Bournemouth, departing from Waterloo. Sam's mother is dropping him off there on her way to work. We're going to have to be there to meet him."

"Where are you planning to go? You haven't told me yet."

"The final destination is a surprise, for both of you. I think you'll be interested. I know Sam will be delighted."

For a moment, John wondered if he could cry off, using his bruised behind as an excuse. But there was something about the look on Sherlock's face that made him think twice. _He so rarely gets interested in anything other than The Work or his experiments; the idea of him actually volunteering to spend time in someone else's company on something that isn't about HIM- well, that's too good an opportunity to miss._ Besides, John's one and only exposure to Sam had been unfortunate. The poor kid probably thought he was an idiot, and he didn't like that thought being reinforced by ducking out of the first time they were supposed to be doing something together.

So he dragged his sore butt into the shower, and then took two ibuprofen after he brushed his teeth. That made him wonder whether he or Sherlock would need to know what medicines Sam would have to take and when while they were away for the day. It worried him. _What happens if he gets into trouble- has a…melt-down or something, or just can't cope with the noise and crowds?_ He'd never spent time in the company of an autistic child- well, he had when he came to think of it; Sherlock acted like it often enough. That said, he knew Sherlock well enough to spot the signs, and to do something to avert the worst. Come to think of it, Sherlock actually did it himself nine times out of ten- removing himself from a situation which would cause him too much sensory overload or stress to be able to cope. Sherlock was a high functioning expert at avoidance strategies. ( _Why do you think I don't do the shopping John? I am not trying to take advantage of you; I just can't tolerate the noise, sights, scents, and people involved.)_ While true, John knew that it was also a convenient excuse. The only time he'd ever seen Sherlock willingly enter a supermarket was when he was hot on the heels of a suspect who decided to cut through a Tesco as part of his escape strategy. ( _The Work takes priority over personal discomfort, John. I could focus on the criminal and ignore all those other distractions)_

Because it was rush hour, they had to walk to the end Baker Street to catch a passing taxi. And the traffic was slow. He could feel Sherlock tensing up beside him. Most of the time when they were in the back of a cab, Sherlock focused on his phone and ignored the passing cars and the shifting scenery. Not today; he was counting off the familiar sights as milestones on their way, constantly shifting his estimation of how late they were going to be.

"Why is it so important, Sherlock?"

The tall brunet looked at him with a puzzled glance. "Familiar faces matter. She won't be able to stop, the Transport Police always move cars on from the drop off point."

John still didn't get it. Sam was sixeen, it wasn't like he was a child. Surely he could wait a couple of minutes. "Why not just text him to tell him to wait if we are late?"

Sherlock sighed. "You have no idea what a train station is, do you, John?"

The question confused him. "Um…the place where people get on and off trains?" Was this a trick question?

"Maybe to you it is. To Sam, it will be an unfamiliar place, a huge open space that is absolutely crammed with people, jostling, pushing; crowds of faces that he can't recognise, can't read to know what they are doing, or thinking about him. It will be full of noise and confusion. Some people will be running, which is frightening if you don't know why. There will be booming announcements on the public address system that are loud enough to be heard over the crowds of people talking, shouting. Then there are the smells- diesel from the trains, car exhaust, the food outlets- Waterloo has twelve retails units selling hot food to travellers. Oh, and then what about the visual impact? There are signs, enormous TV screens with moving images and electronic billboards, the train arrivals and departure boards. It's one huge assault on the senses, John, and hard as hell to manage on his own. Chances are, he will never have been to a station on his own, and it could quite simply be terrifying. So, unless you want him to start off his birthday with an experience he will never forget for all the wrong reasons, it is very important for us to get there before him."

"Oh." Yes, he could see that now. John had always loved the hustle and bustle of stations and airports. The excitement of people going to and coming from places- it was all about anticipation. "So, how do _you_ cope?"

That made Sherlock look away from the window and back at John. He had a furrowed brow. "What makes you think I do?"

John cocked his head to the side in surprise. "Well, you don't appear to be bothered by it. After all, we've been in stations on numerous occasions when chasing suspects or looking at crime scenes."

"Yes, exactly."

"..?.."

Sherlock sighed and looked back out the window. But he did answer. "The Work, John. I can cope with anything if it's for The Work. I can just block everything else out. But, take that away, and I am just as uncomfortable as I suspect Sam will be, if we don't get there soon. Why do you think I hate taking the Underground? Even for a case, it's just too much. And taxis are generally quicker, although this one is trying its best to be the exception that proves the rule." In frustration, he leaned forward and tapped the glass sliding window that separated the cab driver from the passengers. The red light came on as the driver turned the intercom on.

"What can I do for you, Mate?"

"We're not tourists. Take the quicker route. You know as well as I do that Westminster Bridge will be better at this hour than Vauxhall, and you can get onto Station Approach where we need to be dropped off. And hurry. Any hope of a tip depends on it." He switched off the intercom, and ignored the cabbie's scowl.

John tried to control his smirk. Sherlock was the bane of the London taxi world. He always had a better grasp of how to get from A to Z, despite the cabbies' famed "Knowledge" that made their service stand out from any other metropolitan area. But none could compete with the consulting detective's grasp of London traffic and its ebb and flows during the day. Unlike a cabbie, he had an incentive to take the quickest route, not the one which would earn him the most money. "A conflict of interest, John; and I don't pay them to take advantage of me." Well, actually, nine times out of ten when the two of them were in the cab, the doctor was the one who ended up paying. It had been a topic of discussion. Sherlock eventually allocated a sum to monthly taxi fare expenses and somehow it showed up in John's bank account. It was easier than trying to keep track of receipts.

As their cab started to pull into the rank of taxis depositing their passengers at the station, Sherlock rapped on the window again. "No- take us to the car drop off point."

"I'll get in trouble, if I go other than where I'm supposed to."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Oh, all right." The cab swerved out of the line of cabs and passed the lot, heading for a place reserved for car drop offs. John could see a young man standing there on his own, and guessed it was probably Sam.

As soon as the taxi rolled to a halt, Sherlock was out his door and onto the pavement. He walked straight over to the boy, who was looked down at the pavement. John thrust the money at the driver and got out, walking the twenty feet to join them.

Sherlock was standing about a foot away from Sam, talking quietly. For a moment, as he reached halfway to the pair, John was struck by the oddness. Sherlock was looking away from Sam, out at the steady stream of cars coming to drop off people. Yet, he was speaking to the boy, even if John couldn't make out the words over the sound of the traffic. Sam, on the other hand, wasn't looking at Sherlock either; his eyes were fixed on the pavement, with his head held at an awkward angle to ensure he could hear what the taller man said. The casual observer would know that something was just peculiar from their body language.

Sam was of average height and build for a sixteen year old; John saw enough of them as a GP locum to be able to size up weight and body shape to determine the general health of a youngster in the midst of puberty. Spots on his face would make him even shyer; sudden self-awareness of his own body and the changes it was going through would be unsettling for a normal adolescent. What would it mean to someone who was autistic? He remembered Sherlock's comment: "I could feel my bones growing."

When he got to them, Sam didn't look up. John took a breath, and opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Sherlock caught his eye and gave a tiny shake of his head.

John's concern showed in his quiet "Not good?"

Sherlock just said,"Hmm...a bit. This is John. We can do introductions when we're on the train. Are you ready to move, Sam?"

This was answered with a tiny nod.

"Have you got your reference point?" Another nod. Sherlock waited, while John puzzled over his question, but didn't interfere. It might refer to something the two had been talking about while John was paying the taxi driver.

Finally, Sam said. "Coat; I'll focus on the coat." His voice broke, going from a boyish treble to a teenager's tenor on the last word, and he flushed pink. John remembered how embarrassed he'd been when his voice suddenly betrayed him; Harry kept ribbing him about it for ages.

And then they were off. Sherlock strode through the archway into the station. Sam followed about 18 inches behind, his eyes glued to Sherlock's back- specifically, the bottom of his coat. John followed behind Sam, mirroring the distance he was keeping from Sherlock. The doctor realised the sense of the spacing as soon as they got onto the station concourse, which was absolutely teeming with arriving commuters, all rushing every which way to the six different entrances to the four Underground lines intersecting each other beneath the rail station. Sam was close enough to Sherlock that few people would try to squeeze between them, but far enough away not to bump into him when his course altered suddenly to deal with someone walking in front of him or across his path. Because Sam was watching Sherlock's coat, he didn't get the full visual impact of the station. And it was like a game, keep up with the tall brunet's darting journey to Platform 9. John was hard pressed to keep up.

When they reached the barrier, the flood of arriving passengers were pouring through most of the exit gates, but Sherlock headed for the one entrance onto the platform and fed his ticket into the machine, walking through when the electronic gates opened. John fed Sam's through and the young man shot through as if he thought the gates would spring back and catch him.

Once on the train, John realised that they would probably have the area almost to themselves- ninety per cent of the traffic at this time of day was going into London, not out. Sherlock chose an unoccupied foursome and put Sam on his inside, facing away from the direction of travel before taking the seat next to him on the aisle. John sat across from Sherlock, making it unlikely that someone would sit with them. A voice announced the train's destination and that the doors would be closing in one minute. Sherlock looked at John, but he could tell what his flatmate was saying was also for Sam's benefit: "We don't go all the way to Bournemouth; we get off at the seventh stop, Brockenhurst."

The train began to trundle out of Waterloo and southwest out of London.

John began to realise the Sherlock had planned this very carefully to avoid sensory stimuli. Looking at scenery out of the train window was easier if you were looking back at things the train had already passed. Looking forward would mean adjusting your eye continuously to keep pace with the train's speed. _So many things to think about._ He wondered how parents would ever realise the impact of something so simple as which seat they put a child could make such a big difference.

Before the train reached full speed, Sherlock reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of water for each of the three of them. "Sam, this is my friend, Doctor Watson. He shares my flat at Baker Street. He's a doctor, but don't let that put you off. He also used to be in the army, and he works with me on cases."

John was watching Sam as this introduction was made. "Hi, Sam."

The boy just looked sideways at Sherlock but then John realised that he was also being scrutinised by the lad, only out of the corner of his eye. He smiled reassuringly.

"Is he OK about people like us?" Sam was probably remembering the first time he'd seen the doctor, when John had managed to do just about everything wrong, because he didn't know the boy was on the spectrum.

This brought a smirk to Sherlock's mouth. He stared straight at John and said, "I trust him, and now that he knows, so can you."

John shot a look back at the tall brunet."Yes, Sam; If I can put up with Sherlock, I'm pretty bullet-proof."

Sherlock reached back into his shoulder bag and pulled out a wrapped present, which he put in front of Sam.

Sam's eyes were looking at the shape, which suggested a book of some sort.

"Go on, open it up. You've got just under ninety minutes to plan your visit, and choose what you want to see."

Sam ripped into the paper, his excitement eclipsing any attempt to look a bit more grown up and nonchalant. "OH!"

John was able to read the cover upside down: The National Motor Car Museum, Beaulieu.

The brown haired boy didn't say thanks; he just opened the book and started reading. And he ignored them completely for the next hour. Sherlock reached into his bag and handed John a copy of the Times newspaper, and he pulled out his phone. The journey passed in companionable silence. 


	2. Chapter 2

When the train stopped at Brockenhurst more than a dozen people got off the train- mostly families. It was half term and the draw of the New Forest had pulled quite a few people to the area. There was the usual confusion as passengers unfamiliar with the station looked about for exits and a taxi rank. At least this far out in the country, there were no electronic barriers. An old-fashioned platform guard checked their tickets and then they were out in the car park. Sherlock scanned the area, and then headed off towards a red car that had a sign on the door, "Beaulieu National Motor Car Museum."

"Door-to-door service, Sherlock? Why do we rate this when the others have to take a bus?" John pointed to the bus stop that had a Beaulieu sign over it. A queue of passengers was already waiting.

As Sherlock settled Sam in the back seat of the chauffeur-driven car, he replied, "For once, I enjoyed putting Mycroft's little black book of personal contacts to use. The owner of Beaulieu is Lord Montagu; turns out his second son went to Eton at the same time as my brother. I called in a few favours."

In the car, Sherlock asked Sam whether he had decided on what he wanted to see. Beaulieu was not only a museum of cars, but it also had a country home, a medieval abbey and lots of parkland and gardens. But, he thought it likely that the boy's interests would be automotive.

"There are three cars. Just three I want to see."

John was puzzled. "But there are lots of cars in the museum, Sam; don't you want to see them all?"

The lad just shook his head. "Just the three Formula Ones. The rest are just…cars."

When the car dropped them off at the museum, Sherlock took them past the ticket line and in through a gate marked "Staff Only" where they were met by a very attractive young lady wearing the museum uniform. In fact, as John's appreciative eye took in the view, the blonde was filling out the uniform rather well, her curves shown off to good effect in the navy jacket and pencil skirt.

She gave them a dazzling smile. "Hello, I'm Linda Carter. Welcome to the UK's largest private collection of automobiles, gentlemen. I've been told that you have very specific interests, so I won't give you the standard tour. Just tell me what you are interested in, and we will go straight there."

Sherlock took charge. "It's the Formula One cars that fascinate my young friend here. And once you get us there, my other friend will want you to take him on a personally guided tour of your special temporary exhibition."

John looked at him, puzzled. "Just wait, John. This is a present for you, too. But let's get Sam sorted first."

The three of them followed her in through the main entrance of a big barn like building. Once in, John stopped in awe. There were literally hundreds of cars, a magnificent range of everything from ancient Model Ts to Rolls Royce Silver Ghosts, and a huge variety of sports cars of every shape size and configuration. It was a dazzling, bewildering display of automotive treats, to bring delight to every male who had ever had a love affair with a car.

Linda took the three of them in tow and moved smartly through the displays. Sam was watching the bottom of Sherlock's coat, and just ignored it all. The museum was busy with holiday makers- fathers with their sons, teenagers ogling the sports cars, retired couples enjoying a day out. The noise of the crowds talking in such a big space echoed around the exhibition hall.

In one corner, there was a larger group gathered. Miss Carter asked them to let her through and the crowd of appreciative men parted to give them prime position on the rope that kept the cars safe from prying fingers. John worried about how Sam would deal with the people pressing around the exhibit. One look, however, dispelled his fears. Sam's attention was riveted to the car. It was like he didn't see anyone or anything else in the room. _Now where have I seen that degree of focus before?_ John smiled.

Sam was really looking. Linda managed to create some space for Sherlock and John as well, and started talking beside the rope.

"This one is Damon Hill's Williams-Renault FW18, built in 1996." The blue car was covered in brand sponsorship logos, but John could still enjoy the extraordinary lines, from the huge wheels that characterised all Grand Prix cars to the odd spoiler configuration that was needed to keep a car capable of such speeds on the road. He wasn't a follower of Grand Prix racing; his appreciation of cars tended more towards the sports cars- the Jaguar E type was an all-time favourite of his.

The blonde carried on, "1996 was the year when Damon Hill got the World Title that year, by winning …"

Sam interrupted to finish the woman's sentence, "…eight races."

She smiled. "A fan then, are you?" The crowd around the car had started listening into her.

Sam just nodded. And then he started, "It's a V10 cylinder, pneumatically controlled 3,000 cc engine that can make 700 plus horsepower and 16, 500 revolutions per minute. Capable of 220 miles per hour. That's 354.06 in kilometres. This particular car is Chassis Two- that means Damon Hill didn't drive it in the actual races; he used it as a test car to prepare for his races. In 1996 he won the Driver's title with nine pole positions and eight outright victories. Chassis Two was used by Jacques Villeneuve to win his two pole positions and one victory early in the season, and as a result Williams-Renault won the Team Constructor's title that year."

John's smile just kept getting broader as the boy went on. The crowd was listening, but Sam couldn't care less. He was no longer self-conscious about his voice, just mesmerised, and the facts were pouring out of him. The halting monosyllabic exchanges on the train were forgotten. _This is what he is good at._ His eyes were devouring every inch of the car, just absorbing every detail as he started to move around it. The crowds stepped back to let him walk around the display.

When he got to the back of the car, Linda started to say something about the spoiler, but Sam cut her off. "It's not a _spoiler_ , it's the drag reduction system. The DRS is an important part of the competition. In prep, drivers can use it anytime, but during the race, there are strict rules meaning it can only be activated when the car is within one second of the car in front. That's _close_." He gestured up to the cockpit. "There's a DRS dashboard light that shows when he can use it. But when you do, the next time you touch the brakes, then the DRS deactivates and the flap returns to neutral. You can't use it within the first two laps, and if the track is wet, they may decide it's too slippery."

John took a moment to glance at Sherlock who was watching Sam with a bemused smile. "I think your birthday present is a hit. You a fan of motor racing then? Do you understand what he's talking about?"

"Nope. Haven't a clue; not my area. I can drive, but what happens under the bonnet is just ...not interesting."

"Well, Sam would disagree."

"To each their own, John." He was content just to watch the normally non-communicative teenager talking at a mile-a-minute. Lestrade nephew was talking more to himself than anyone else; that others were listening didn't matter to Sam in the slightest.

After ten minutes, Linda gave up trying to keep up with the teenager. It wasn't exactly fair to expect her to know every one of the hundreds of cars' mechanical details, so she bowed to the boy's superior technical knowledge. John was beginning to find his own attention wandering under the onslaught of factual data.

Sherlock tapped Linda on the elbow and asked her to step back so they could talk without distracting Sam. "Miss Carter, my other friend is in need. Would you be so kind as to take him off to the temporary exhibition now? I can look after Sam, and we won't be going anywhere soon. After all, there is Michael Schumacher's Ferrari over there to keep him busy when he's done with this one. Why don't we meet up as planned for lunch at 1.30?"

"Are you sure?" When Sherlock made a shooing gesture with his right hand, John escaped with the Museum Guide.

"What's this exhibition then?" She was leading him toward an unmarked door, opening it with a Key fob.

"We will avoid the queue and go in the back door. I understand you are a fan of James Bond, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes", remembering the times that he had forced Sherlock to watch a DVD from his Bond collection. _It's an integral part of our culture, Sherlock; you can't really be British if you don't know it._

"Then you're going to _love_ this exhibition."

And he did- it was called _Bond in Motion_ and it had every one of the iconic cars- all of the Aston Martins, the two BMWs, Goldfinger's Rolls Royce, you name the film, the car was there. But that wasn't all- to celebrate the Bond films' 50th anniversary, the museum had brought together planes, motorbikes (including the one Daniel Craig just used in _Skyfall_ ), speedboats and even a jetpack from _Die Another Day_ – in short, a film-fan's dream. Linda was a wonderful companion; turned out she knew every key scene, even some of the lines that were used when the exhibits were on screen. They spent a lot of time laughing and trading snippets of dialogue.

When his eyes and brain were just about full, she took mercy on him and escorted him to the museum's restaurant. It was heaving by now, full of families enjoying a day out. She took him right past the main dining room and up a flight of stairs into a private room. There he found Sam and Sherlock standing at the window, eyeing the plates of sandwiches put out there.

Linda just said, "And this is where I have to leave you gentlemen. As we discussed, Mr Holmes, you will be collected again at 2.15 for the next part of the tour. _Bon appetite_."

Sherlock watched, as John thanked her profusely and rather longingly watched her leave. "Found a fellow Bond fan, did you?"

"Ummm, yes- I think she'd be a marvellous Moneypenny, don't you?"

"I've always thought of my brother's PA in that role, myself. Shame that her boss is the most boring man alive."

John laughed. He was in a good mood.

And so was Sam, who was tucking into a sandwich as if he was ravenous.

John asked him "How was the other car?" and braced himself for another lecture.

"Cool." He kept chewing, but then stopped. "But, I wish it had been the one being serviced and the McLaren was on display. That's my all-time favourite, and I missed it."

"Would seeing all eight of James Bond's Aston Martins be any compensation?"

Sam just swallowed and took another bite. "No. Road cars, no matter what brand, well, they are, just boring."

"Why?"

The teenager gulped down half a glass of water. "Because they're too easy. Anybody can win a race if you've got a bigger engine, lighter chassis or different tyres. What makes F1 interesting are the rules. Every car has to have all the big things identical under the rules; that forces the engineers to really push design to the limits. Even a tiny technical improvement can make a team win. It's…brilliant."

oOo

The three of them were standing in a garage. Not just any garage. This one was the cleanest, most high tech garage John had ever seen. _More a science lab than anything else._ They were surrounded by machines that did things John couldn't even guess about. And computers everywhere- laptops, PCs, tablets in the hands of the mechanics. Well, that's who they'd been introduced as, but again, they looked like scientists, with white lab coats rather than grease stained overalls.

They'd been brought here after lunch for a private viewing. In the middle of the garage was the object of everyone's attention: a fire-engine red Formula One car, the McLaren Honda MP4/4-6.

Sam had already given them the technical specs: built in 1988, this actual car- "yes, it's the real thing, not a replica" explained one of the engineers in response to Sam's whispered question – this car had won both the World Driver's and Constructor's trophies that year. It won fifteen of the sixteen Grand Prix races that year- and came in second in the one it lost. No other car had ever achieved it.

And Sam was being allowed to get up close and actually touch it. There were no ropes to stop him here. For the first ten minutes, he'd been so overwhelmed he couldn't speak. Just looked at _everything_ and almost hummed in anticipation. He stood beside Sherlock and tried to control his excitement. Then, when he was invited to touch the car, his hand actually trembled as he put it onto the fiberglass body.

The chief engineer explained that the car had been removed from the exhibition for a week to allow some Coventry University graduate students to conduct tests on it. "It's still in perfect running order; Lord Montagu insists on it. So, while we have it up on blocks, we are also doing some maintenance."

If John thought that Sam had enjoyed his morning, he realised now that the teenager was really in heaven. He and one of the mechanics were trading chassis specification details just as fast as the teenager could get them out of his mouth.

"The engine's next door. We've been putting it through its paces, because that's what the Coventry guys want to study. Want to take a look?"

Sam could only nod, as if he didn't trust his voice.


	3. Chapter 3

"OH." Sam's eyes were out on stalks, totally fixated on the gleaming metal engine that was sitting in its own specially designed stand. Wires were running into it all over the place, leading to computer screens and other machines that John didn't have a clue about. It reminded him of a patient on an operating table, hooked up to just about every piece of life-saving equipment a hospital could throw at them. At each screen and machine, a young man was standing in excited anticipation. They were all wearing their Coventry Uni sweatshirts emblazoned with the words 'F1 Testing Project'.

Sam's voice kept breaking, but it didn't stop him. It sounded like he was reciting something from memory: "Engines can be no more than 2.4 litres in capacity. They must have eight cylinders in a 90-degree formation, with two inlet and two exhaust valves per cylinder. They must be normally aspirated, weigh at least 95 kilograms and be rev-limited to 18,000rpm. No air cooling, turbocharging or superchargers are allowed. "

One of the engineers smiled at the boy. "Yes, it is strange. We could easily make it weigh less and rev more; no problem, just use composite materials."

Sam looked at him askance. "That would be cheating!"

The man laughed. "Yes, it would- which is why they constantly test every single component independently by F1 officials before a car is passed for use."

He looked over at John and Sherlock. "We're going to be testing it running at full throttle for five minutes. I don't suppose you've ever been in a pit during a race, so prepare yourself for one of the loudest sounds you will ever hear. We'll be starting slow, but after twenty seconds we will open the throttle to maximum, at which point the five minute timer will start. You can keep your eye on the wall clock over there; it will be showing the test duration." He eyed the teenager. "You gonna be okay with this, lad? It's so loud it will hurt, even with protection."

Sam nodded. "I've watched it on telly at full volume just to understand it."

The mechanic smiled. "Well, prepare yourself for something a whole lot louder. TV recording microphones automatically dampen down the decibel levels."

He handed them all headphone shaped ear defenders, amazingly thick. When John had his on, he realised the engineer was still talking, but he couldn't hear a thing. The man gestured to his own set and touched a knob on the earpiece. When John did the same, he could hear the guy's tinny voice saying that no F1 engine had its own starter motor; they were always started with an external device.

The engineers and the students in the room all had ear defenders around their necks, which they now put over their ears. The signal was given, and the engine roared into life.

The sound was like nothing John had ever experienced before. And 'experience' was the operative word. It wasn't just a case of _hearing_ it; he could feel it, too. In the army, he'd been next to artillery guns being fired. But the difference between a mortar going off, or even a tank round, was that it was incredibly loud boom- and then it stopped. This noise didn't stop, in fact it was getting louder by the second.

The chief engineer made a gesture, pushing his fist forward, telling the man controlling the throttle to open it up fully. John gasped, as his skin under his clothes felt the pressure of the sound- it was a really strange sensation- like a hand was pushing him. He glanced over at Sam, to see how the boy was taking it; the doctor worried if sensory overload would be troubling him.

The boy's body language said it all. Face set in a grimace of almost pain, yet grinning with delight, too- he was just caught by the combination of both pain and pleasure. Sam hugged his arms to his chest, but John realised that nothing was going to make the teenager move away, and he relaxed a bit.

That thought made him glance back at Sherlock, who was standing behind them.

One look and John realised that it wasn't Sam who was in trouble; it was Sherlock. He, too, had crossed his arms in front of his chest, but unlike Sam, the tall brunet was not taking any pleasure at all from the experience. He looked pale, and he was almost panting. _Uh oh._ John tried to get eye contact, but the taller man was just staring off across the room at the wall clock that was counting down the seconds of the test.

After a minute and a half, Sherlock just closed his eyes for a moment, and John reached out to try to get his attention. When John's hand touched Sherlock's arm, the taller man flinched and took a sideways step to avoid the contact. His grey green eyes found John's for a split second and he mouthed the words- _Stay._ He flicked his eyes to Sam and gestured weakly to John that he must stay with the boy. And then he turned and fled from the room.

It was one of the longest three and a half minutes John had ever experienced. The seconds ticked off as he watched Sam's obvious enjoyment, and worried about what was happening to Sherlock. He felt torn. The other people in the room didn't know about Sam, so he couldn't leave him, just in case it all became too much for him. But, his imagination was leading him in places he didn't want Sherlock to be.

When at last the clock hands hit the five minute mark, the engine cut out. At the same time as the graduate students ripped their headphones off, so did Sam. The chief engineer read out,"152 decibels" and the figure was greeted by whoops and cheers, those of the boy blended with the rest of the test team. For an F1 fan, it must have been the experience of a lifetime.

But John was worried when Sherlock did not reappear. He handed back his headphones and Sam's, then thanked the chief mechanic. "Sam, we need to find Sherlock."

The boy looked surprised. "Where is he?"

"He had to leave; I think the noise was too much for him."

"Oh." Sam looked confused, but he followed John out of the room, along the corridor and out of the building. John scanned the area around from the doorway. And saw a figure over by one of the out buildings about 100 metres away. Sherlock was sitting down, back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.

John decided that running would probably frighten Sam, so he just set off at a quick walk.

Sherlock's eyes were closed. His face was turned up toward the sun, as if seeking its warmth. As John drew closer, he could smell the scent of vomit, and spotted a dark patch on the dirt to Sherlock's left. The doctor could hear his ragged breaths, too, and realised that his friend might be in the middle of a panic attack.

Before he could say anything, Sherlock spoke first. "Alright Sam?" He opened his eyes and looked at the boy, with his usual forensic scrutiny, looking for signs of distress.

"Yeah, fine. Better than fine; that was brilliant."

"Good." He was getting his ragged breathing back under control.

"Sherlock…" John was a little constrained. He didn't want to worry Sam, but he was really concerned. Sherlock reached into his shoulder bag and drew out his half-finished bottle of water. He took a mouthful, swilled it around and then rather delicately spat it out beside him, in a rather matter-of-fact way.

The brunet then got to his feet a little unsteadily, avoiding John's offer of a hand.

Sam was looking down at the ground, but also at him, out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Sam, what was the final decibel count?"

"152"

"Then that explains it."

John looked confused.

The brunet started walking while talking in a calm voice. "At 14O decibels of continuous noise, did you know that the human throat and vocal chords will resonate with the sound? At 141, it can induce nausea. At 144 the human nose will start to itch due to the vibrations of the hairs in the nose. At 145 the vision blurs because the eyeball starts to vibrate in sympathy. At 150 breathing is affected, because your lungs start to vibrate to the sound, and you get a sensation of being compressed as if underwater. At 152, the vibration becomes painful because it is felt in the joints. Ear defenders only protect your ears. I am glad the rest of it didn't bother you, Sam."

"Yeah, well- it kind of did, but it didn't matter. I mean, the sound is coming from the engine and I know what the engine is doing, and it's OK. It hurts- yeah, of course it does, but the pain's ok, 'cos it means I was there to see it and feel it and know something more about F1. This is what I want to do. Not the engine thing or work in a pit, but the design stuff. It was just…so cool. The whole thing, this whole day…it's just wicked."

oOo

Back on the train, it was much busier than it had been on the way down to Brockenhurst, so the three of them had to split up. Sam went inside, next to the window, and Sherlock on the aisle, where he could get some more leg room. John sat in an empty seat across the aisle three seats further forward of the pair. But he kept glancing back to keep an eye on the pair.

Sam was exhausted by the whole experience, and he only managed to keep his eyelids open for about fifteen minutes before the rocking of the train put him out. The teenager slumped in his seat and then when the train took an arc to the left, he ended up leaning up against Sherlock, sound asleep for the rest of the journey. The brunet did not avoid the contact. He spent most of the trip with his own eyes closed, but John knew he wasn't asleep. There would be too much stimulation going on- the sound of other passengers talking, the faint rhythmic hissing leaking from someone's iPod earphones, people walking up and down the train corridor on their way to the loo or the buffet car. Not to mention the seven stops, with the guard announcements before during and after each one.

When they got to Waterloo, it was almost dark. This time, Sherlock asked John to lead the way, but stopped on the other side of the ticket barrier, to ask Sam what his reference point would be. "If you give him the shoulder bag, I can use that." Sherlock handed it over, and the threesome set off for the taxi rank. Sherlock had arranged to drop Sam off at New Scotland Yard, so Lestrade could take the boy home to his family for their birthday celebration.

Greg was waiting out front as the taxi drew up. The fifteen year old, now refreshed from his nap on the train, bounded out. The DI had a big smile for his nephew. "Alright then?"

"Yeah. It was great."

"So, what do you say, Sam?"

The teenager looked confused for a moment. "Oh! Yeah- thanks."

Greg just rolled his eyes and smirked at John and Sherlock in the taxi. "Teenagers are all the same- an ungrateful lot. See you later."

As soon as the taxi pulled away from the kerb and headed north towards Baker Street, Sherlock leaned his head onto the cool window and closed his eyes.

John looked at him. "You okay, Sherlock?"

"Mmm. Fine. I'm fine. Glad that Sam can handle that …noise. It worried me that it might put him off his passion. Good to know it hasn't."

As the taxi went around Marble Arch, Sherlock spoke again. "Just remind me, John, never, ever to accept a case that involves a crime scene at a Grand Prix race track. I don't think even The Work would be enough to keep me focused against that kind of assault on my senses."

 _But you were willing to endure it for the sake of a sixteen year old boy. So much for that self-confessed sociopathy._ John smiled, but kept quiet all the way back to Baker Street.


End file.
